


there’s fantasy, there’s fallacy, there’s tumbling stone

by brodinsons (aeon_entwined)



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, References to Suicide, bits and pieces of dwarven culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/pseuds/brodinsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://euclase.tumblr.com/">euclase's</a> commentary on <a href="http://brodinsons.tumblr.com/post/40284695593/hood-academy">this post</a>: <i>This makes me want an AU where Thorin Oakenshield is imprisoned by elves and/or enemy dwarves, and to humiliate the king, they cut off his hair and shave off his beard. And after his eventual escape, starved and broken, Thorin hides out in the Shire, where it takes ages for Bilbo to even get him out of bed let alone out the front door. And they fight and argue, and Thorin is a terrible, filthy, weakened, depressed shell of a king. But eventually he does recover, and he and Bilbo get to know each other better, and Thorin teaches Bilbo how to shoot arrows and wield axes on sunny afternoons while Bilbo shows Thorin how to garden. And Thorin’s not sure he has it in him to return home until Fili and Kili and a few others who’ve been searching for him show up on Bilbo’s front stoop—just as they did years before, but of course their quest is much different this time.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	there’s fantasy, there’s fallacy, there’s tumbling stone

**Author's Note:**

> First, a whopping massive round of applause to [euclase](http://euclase.tumblr.com/) for stepping in as the best beta I could have ever asked for. She's held my hand the entire way over the last week while this monster took shape and make sure to smack my wrists if I got unruly. Thanks a million, love! Wouldn't be here without you!
> 
> Second, a hugely grateful "thank you" to the LotR fandom at large, for re-welcoming me into the fold with such enthusiasm. Lots of love to all you guys.

They come in the small hours of the night.

Thorin scarcely has time to regain consciousness before there are a dozen hands on him, ripping and tearing at his traveling cloak as he rouses fully and thrashes, attempting to escape their clutches.

He roars obscenities at the lot of them, though it does little to help him. The stronger raiders manage to pin him to the forest floor, holding his limbs fast to prevent him from escaping. In a moment of absolute clarity, Thorin realizes how very much he regrets not taking Dwalin up on his offer to accompany him on the long road to Rivendell for the meeting with the Elvish lords.

Still, he fights against his captors, only freezing when one of them approaches with a wickedly sharp knife.

Thorin’s eyes widen, thinking that they intend to gut him and leave his remains for the wargs still roaming the East Road. Instead, the raider holding the knife laughs at him, any expression he might have made hidden behind the thick cloth woven over the raider’s nose and mouth. The eyes visible above the mask glitter hungrily, and Thorin bares his teeth in defiance. He knows that these raiders are dwarves, but not ones he himself has ever met. Who has he wronged so poignantly in his life that they would be forced to do this?

“You call yourself a king, and yet you cared for nothing but unearthing the treasure the dragon buried,” the raider drawls, kneeling down and drawing the point of the knife across Thorin’s clavicle above his mail and light armor. “Your people live in squalor and you renounce your allies without a second thought. Someone ought to put you in your place."

The nameless dwarf snatches one of his braids, then shears it clean off, dark eyes glittering malevolently. Thorin roars in horrified shock.

“Let’s see your people embrace you now … _Thorin Oakenshield_ ,” the raider hisses, now grabbing fistfuls of his dark hair and taking the knife to it, cropping it within inches of his skull.

Throughout it all, Thorin bellows and struggles, his movements growing steadily more halfhearted the longer the raiders keep him held down. When his braids and long hair lie scattered across the dried leaves of the forest floor, the raider brandishes the knife again, this time at his jaw.

Thorin freezes, though it’s not enough to mute the pain of having the sharp blade taken to his thick beard, the coarse hair shorn off with no regard for his comfort or safety while the raider and his compatriots laugh riotously.

When it’s over, the leader crouches over him, then brings the handle of the knife down hard against his temple.

Thorin sinks into blackness for the second time that night.

When he wakes, the sun is high overhead and the forest is a very different one from the previous night. His entire body aches, and when he lifts a hand to his face, his palm comes away flecked with dried blood.

He raises his hand to the crown of his skull, then makes a pained sound as his fingers sift through the cropped hair, tugging uselessly at the inch-long inky tufts.

After clutching his aching head for a few moments more, Thorin rises unsteadily to his feet. He knows he should consider himself fortunate that the raiders neglected to seriously harm him, but the image he has of himself in his mind’s eye is injury enough.

_Imagine what your nephews would think if they could see you now._

He picks through his scattered belongings, managing to piece together most of his traveling pack. His furred surcoat is torn beyond repair, but his light armor remains intact. His hunting bow, a gift from his youngest nephew, is broken, and many of his jewel-tipped arrows lie scattered in the leaves.

Meeting with Lord Elrond is out of the question now. He cannot show his face amongst his own people like this, let alone the elves the dwarves of Erebor have only recently begun to construct a fragile alliance with.

Dragging his pack behind him, Thorin limps to the nearby stream, kneeling on the bank to splash frigid water over his face and bare throat. Crimson droplets fall back into the rushing current, and Thorin doesn’t stop until his cheeks are very nearly rubbed raw. 

Once finished, he pauses to take in his reflection.

His beard is no more, replaced with patchy stubble that would look more at home on Kíli’s cheeks than his own. And his hair … the braids are gone, as are the long tresses that fell over his shoulders, leaving behind close-cropped locks barely long enough to cover the tips of his ears.

Thorin smashes his curled fists into the sandy bank beneath his knees with a howl of pain and unfettered rage. He knows it will be fruitless to hunt down the raiders who attacked him; surely, they are long gone now. Better to continue on and find a safe haven he can employ for his recovery, however long it takes.

He cannot return home like this, broken and bleeding, knifed up like a crudely sheared lamb. He will find a way to send word to Balin, or perhaps Dís. In time. For now, he needs to stay far away from Erebor and Rivendell both. Somewhere quiet, then. 

Gritting his teeth against the pain of heavily bruised muscles as he rises to his feet, Thorin considers his options.

His surroundings indicate that his assailants carried him for some time before abandoning him to the mercies of the wilds. The Great East Road is visible enough, but if he squints, he can very nearly see Weathertop in the distance. Rivendell is far behind at this point. 

Gathering his meager supplies, including the halves of his nephew's bow, Thorin ensures that Orcrist is still lashed to his back (apparently, the raiders saw fit to leave him his beloved weapon, over most of the rest of his belongings), then begins the long trek towards Weathertop, and beyond, the safe borders of the Shire.

He has never before ventured into the territory of their infamous burglar, save his singular visit at the beginning of the quest to reclaim Erebor. In truth, he knows very little of hobbits at all.

He knows Bilbo. He knows the fiery spirit that lurks beneath that unassuming exterior. Perhaps not tried and tested in battle, but when presented with the challenge, Bilbo rose to it effortlessly, tossing himself into the frays against Azog and the goblins and the orcs without a second thought.

It has been nearly five years since he last laid eyes on the Halfling. Thorin has scarcely thought of him, though not without effort; he has done his best to push those sour memories to the back of his mind, favoring the distractions of restoring Erebor to her rightful glory instead. He wonders if Bilbo has forgotten him as well—he wonders how much effort it might have taken.

He would not blame Bilbo for it if he had. Not after their final words before Bilbo’s departure from the Lonely Mountain. His own pride and greed had proven too strong. He paid for his transgressions with the loss of a friendship he had come to value more than he ever thought possible.

Now, adrift and humiliated, he finds himself reaching for that tattered thread.

  
****

+++

Upon his return to Bag End five years earlier, Bilbo found his hobbit hole covered with a fine layer of dust, and very nearly all of his silverware conspicuously absent.

He’s managed to track down the majority of it (convincing everyone that he was in fact alive, not dead, helped to dispel a great deal of the rumors concerning his disappearance), and the eternal rivalry with the Sackville-Bagginses remains as healthy as ever.

The chest containing his share of the treasure has remained locked in his study for the past five years. He refuses to open it.

Not for fear of having the contents stolen or anything of the sort. No. That chest serves to remind him of how very close he came to failing his company, his friends. It reminds him of the severing of that bond he had forged with Thorin, that he believed would last through the ages, allowing them to remain fast friends even a world apart.

But no. He is here, and Thorin is King under the Mountain, and that's just as it should be. If anyone were to ask, Bilbo Baggins is quite happy. Or so he tells himself.

He visits the Gaffer and his boys, occasionally hosts rather successful parties when Hobbiton is in need of good entertainment, and has decided to pen a memoir as a record of his adventures across Middle Earth for the future Bagginses.

Just last week, the Gaffer’s youngest lad came running up the lane with a parcel in his tiny arms. He delivered it to Bilbo with a note thanking him for his help with the communal gardens growing in the center of town. Upon opening the parcel, Bilbo discovered a lovely leather-bound journal. A perfect excuse to begin writing that memoir.

And so, life continues.

It is duller, perhaps, than the existence he grew accustomed to on the two years spent abroad with a company of rough-hewn dwarves. Less exciting, less adventurous. 

Some days, Bilbo finds himself wishing for a glimpse of Gandalf coming up the lane. Those days are the worst. He wonders after Kíli and Fíli and Balin and Dwalin and Bofur and Ori and all of the brave dwarves he came to call family. He wonders if they are happy, if Erebor is the home they’ve always dreamed of.

As the days pass, rumors begin flitting up through Hobbiton, about a stranger having been seen in Bree. According to reports from the local gossip, the stranger is apparently a traveling smith, plying his trade wherever he goes. He’s charmed Bree well enough, but is apparently still moving, a wanderer.

And that is all Bilbo hears for weeks, the gossip mill having gone halfway silent with a lack of anything juicy enough to sink its teeth into.

The spring storms are arriving with steady regularity, and Bilbo congratulates himself on having gotten all his gardening done before the torrential downpours make their presence known. His plants are flourishing, as are the fruits and vegetables over the hill.

It’s not until a rainy evening in the very middle of the season that the gossip catches up.

He’s just sat down to a supper of eggs and biscuits when there’s a faint pounding on the front door.

At first, Bilbo imagines it to be a trick of the storm. But then it comes again. Abandoning his meal (despite every instinct telling him to leave well enough alone), he ties his dressing gown tighter around his waist and approaches the door.

There, standing on his front porch, is a dwarf.

The sopping wet figure glances his way, relief evident in the suddenly lax line of his shoulders. “I thought you’d gone.”

“That’s very nice, but where else should I be?” he questions tersely, unable to fully identify the face hidden in shadow and only illuminated by distant flashes of lightning.

“I do not know,” comes the painfully familiar rumbling voice.

“ _T-Thorin?_ ” he gapes as the dwarf glances up, revealing a closely shorn beard and hair cropped within inches of his skull. “What are you doing here? _How_ did you get here? _What happened?_ ”

“May I come in?”

Bilbo nods mutely, then steps back to allow Thorin room to enter.

The dwarf king steps inside. He removes a worn traveling cloak, hanging it upon the hooks on the wall, then turns his attention to sorting his pack and belongings on Bilbo’s trunk.

"I sought work in Bree. I'd hoped to pay my way, but I feared being recognized,” he grunts noncommittally, preoccupied with seeing to the somewhat drenched items within his pack.

“Thorin, what’s happened?” Bilbo doesn’t approach, but rather stays where he is, worried that perhaps there is far more to Thorin’s arrival than his shocking appearance indicates.

Finally, the dwarf turns to face him.

Thorin’s dark hair, while longer than any hobbit’s, scarcely reaches his nape. His braids are gone, and it seems he hasn’t made any effort to fashion small ones from what little hair remains. On closer inspection, Thorin’s beard is actually not a beard at all, but just thick stubble that reminds Bilbo painfully of Kíli’s fair face. The resemblance is almost uncanny now, and he feels rather a fool for having taken so long to realize their relation during the quest for Erebor.

“Well?” the dwarf king demands sharply, startling Bilbo out of his observations. “Have you looked long enough to draw your own conclusions?”

Bilbo shakes his head and immediately deflects his gaze to the closed door behind Thorin, chastising himself for being so transparent. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m sorry.”

Thorin’s anger seems to deflate without warning, leaving him drenched and even more miserable looking than he was on the front stoop. 

“I was invited to a meeting in Rivendell. With Lord Elrond’s council,” he begins, that familiar voice seeming to fill the entire entryway. “As our company was treated favorably during our visit, I accepted. Just after passing through the Misty Mountains, I was set upon by raiders. They sought to humiliate me, and succeeded admirably.”

What little Bilbo knows of Dwarven culture tells him that their beards are often standards of pride and status, braided and shaped over many years.

“But why? Who were they? Why not go to Elrond and demand his help?”

“Do you think I could show my face before an Elf like this?!” Thorin’s voice rises to a bellow.

Bilbo stares at him, eyes wide, then rubs a hand over his mouth. “Why did you come here, then?”

Thorin’s sharp blue eyes narrow. “I have no place else. I cannot return home and I cannot venture to Rivendell. I had no choice.”

“Right … and I’m just supposed to open my door without question? I wasn’t exactly expecting you.”

The dwarf king opens his mouth, then abruptly closes it.

“I am sorry for imposing on you,” Thorin replies carefully. “If you would grant me the favor of allowing me to impose on your abode for a short while, I would be most grateful.”

The unexpected response prompts Bilbo to reconsider tossing Thorin back out on the stoop come morning. Perhaps the five years since their parting has changed them more than he expected.

“Should I expect a dozen more dwarves showing up in the next few hours?” he asks. 

Thorin sighs, then shakes his head. “I am alone.”

Bilbo studies his once-companion, the slumped line of his shoulders, the way his head is bowed low, his posture heavy and broken, so unlike the dwarf that strode proudly into his home half a decade ago as if he owned the place. As the sound of the rain outside begins to fade, Bilbo feels his ire soften. "There's a room down the hall," he says at last.

Thorin inclines his head, then disappears down the darkened hall. Bilbo watches as the door to the spare room closes behind the dwarf king, hiding him from sight. He remains in the entryway, still parsing out the strange events that have once again tilted the ground out from under his feet.

By the time he returns to his supper, it’s gone cold.

  
****

+++

In the morning, Bilbo wakes to bright sunshine. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, then starts his daily routine of putting a kettle on, followed by a short walk down the lane in his dressing gown.

When he returns, he finds the house as still and quiet as he left it. There is no indication that a Dwarven king has taken up residence in Bag End, no sounds indicating that Thorin is even awake.

After breakfast, Bilbo ventures down the hall to rap on the sturdy door. No one answers, and he isn't surprised. 

"Thorin," says Bilbo through the closed door. "If you're up and about, there's tea. And bread." He waits a moment. Still, there's no response. "You're free to have whatever you wish from the pantry," he adds, a little more loudly.

A soft sound comes through the door then. Bilbo thinks he can make out the rhythm of whispered words, perhaps a song or a prayer. He isn't sure which. He hadn't known dwarves sang to themselves before breakfast, but perhaps they do.

He goes about his day, tending to the slightly waterlogged gardens in the front of the house, as well as over the hill. By the time supper arrives, he still hasn’t seen hide nor hair of his uninvited guest. Bilbo prolongs the cooking of his meal in case the smell coaxes Thorin out of his room, but to no avail. He eats alone once again. 

The pattern continues for several days. Bilbo grows more worried every hour that the closed door down the unlit hallway doesn't open.

Just after second breakfast on the third day after Thorin’s arrival, Bilbo ventures down the hall, then pounds his fist against the sturdy wood door.

“Thorin,” he calls, listening intently for any movement within the room. “Thorin, open the door, please.”

After several more moments of pounding his fist against the unrelenting wood, Bilbo turns the knob and pushes open the door, revealing a darkened room that looks scarcely touched.

He blinks several times to adjust to the abrupt change from bright daylight. After observing the room, Bilbo startles as his gaze falls on the rumpled bed. The outline of a supine figure wrapped in the sheets is clearly visible.

Bilbo races to the bed, hands fluttering over the dwarf king’s form as he struggles to determine where best to shake him awake. He settles for grabbing Thorin’s shoulder, pushing and shoving as carefully as he dares.

“Thorin!” Bilbo’s voice quavers as his attempts fail to rouse Thorin, and once it becomes clear they will not yield any reward, he races to the kitchen to fetch a pitcher of fresh water.

He runs back to the spare room, then carefully splashes a generous amount onto the dwarf king’s face, breathing a harsh sigh of relief as Thorin heaves a gasp and startles up, sharp eyes flying open.

“You nearly gave me palpitations!” Bilbo points an accusing finger at the now sopping dwarf king. “What was that all about?”

Thorin glares at him from beneath a drenched curtain of black hair that falls just over his brow, though the expression softens as he takes in Bilbo’s distress. 

He settles back against the pillows piled along the headboard, exhaling slowly. He at least has the decency to look sorry. "I confess I haven't been eager to greet the sun. The attack left me weak and… dispirited. I apologize for frightening you. I promised I would stay out of your way, Master Baggins. Do not worry yourself over me."

“Oh, so it’s back to _Master Baggins_ , is it?” Bilbo draws himself up, using every inch of his meager height to his advantage. “I’ll have you know, Thorin Oakenshield, that you may be one of the most prideful and insufferable dwarves I’ve ever known, but you are still my friend, and I would be a terrible host if I failed to look after your health.”

Thorin blinks at that, clearly taken aback. “Your friend?”

Bilbo looks away, hesitant. "Yes, of course. You're my friend. And I hate to see you like this."

Thorin blinks, but says nothing.

Bilbo eyes him with a moue of distaste, his nose wrinkling. “And you are positively _ripe_. Out of bed. Time for a bath.”

Thorin grunts, then settles further against the mound of pillows behind him. “I am quite fine without. I merely need time to recover my strength. No need to concern yourself.”

Bilbo opens his mouth; fully prepared to continue arguing, then snaps it shut. Pushing now will only prompt Thorin to dig his heels in further. 

“Alright, fine,” he lifts both hands in a gesture of surrender. “But if you’re not out at the table for second breakfast tomorrow, I’m going to drag you in there myself.”

Thorin makes a noncommittal noise, rolling over and burrowing back under the covers, effectively ending the conversation.

Bilbo leaves the room feeling more confused than he did upon entering it, but at least he’s given an ultimatum that Thorin will hopefully abide by. As he returns to the kitchen and begins fussing with the dishes, he considers what sort of measures he may have to resort to if Thorin remains obstinate.

He has little experience in these matters. There was a widowed mother down the lane a number of years before his adventure to Erebor who ensconced herself within her home, refusing to leave for anything and anyone. It became something of a spectacle in Hobbiton at the time, with some believing her to be dying, though Bilbo remembers only the bare details. Is Thorin in the same state? Unwilling or unable to pick himself up? What if Bilbo is out of his depth? What if Thorin is worse than he's let on?

Bilbo swallows, twisting the dishrag between his hands. Would Balin and the others come to detain him? Would they blame him? 

No, thinks Bilbo. This is the wisest course of action. His heart tells him as much, at least. Thorin may be stubborn, but Bilbo knows he can measure up quite well when given a push.

He goes about the rest of the day as he normally does, only venturing once down the hall to the guest room, where the sound of quiet but unmistakable sobs from within make him lay his hand against the wooden door rather than knock as he'd planned. The sobs makes him panic—for a moment. Perhaps his heart has led him wrong. But then the sobs grow silent and are soon replaced by gentle snores. Later, in his own room, Bilbo silently vows to himself that he will help his friend, whatever the cost.

  
****

+++

The next morning, he wakes late, scarcely in time for second breakfast let alone anything before it. After tidying his room, Bilbo ventures into the kitchen, and is startled to find Thorin seated at the table, shorn, uneven hair greasy, his features pained, ugly scratches healing on his cheek and jaw, but somehow just as regal as he ever was.

A tense moment of silence stretches between them, before Bilbo seats himself opposite the dwarf king. Long, uncomfortable minutes pass, and Bilbo hears his stomach growl for the third time before Thorin finally speaks.

“You have my word, Bilbo, that I will abide by whatever rules you see fit to impose on me while I take advantage of your hospitality,” a tired smile pulls at the edges of Thorin’s lips. “I would make amends for the things said between us at our last meeting.”

Bilbo sniffs, lifting his chin slightly. He doesn’t want to seem completely incapable of asserting his position of authority already.

“Well, we have some work to do,” he declares, crossing his arms over his chest. “And don’t think I’m going to be letting you mope in here . You’ll be helping me with the gardens, first thing tomorrow morning.”

Thorin inclines his head, then offers a faint smile. “As you wish, Master Baggins.”

“Good,” Bilbo nods. “Now, about that bath.”

He earns a roll of the eyes from Thorin, but doesn’t back down. 

“Come on, then,” Bilbo rises from the table, making his way down towards the hall. “I’ll help you get settled.”

There’s a decent amount of grumbling and cursing from the dwarf king as he follows Bilbo into the bathroom, but Bilbo chooses to ignore it. He opens the tap and begins filling the tub with comfortably warm water, testing it with his fingers before moving to collect several soaps.

“Alright, should be warm enough. Go ahead.”

Thorin gives him a slightly dubious look, though he does bow to the Halfling’s order, stripping himself of his worn garb and discarding it on the chair across the room while Bilbo turns for a moment to give him privacy to undress.

He approaches the tub, then climbs in, moving slow enough to avoid sloshing an excessive amount of water over the rim.

As Thorin settles himself at the head of the tub, he tries to stretch his legs into the water. It takes several tries to find that he can scarcely fit without having to bend double, let alone extending his legs.

He glances at Bilbo, one dark brow quirked upward.

Bilbo stifles a quiet laugh, then offers a sympathetic shrug. “I’m afraid there’s nothing for it. Hobbits aren’t in the habit of making tubs for larger beings.”

“So it seems.”

The dwarf king settles back, resting his head on the smooth rim of the tub while Bilbo finds himself with an armful of soaps and no real idea what he had planned to do with them.

“Erm,” he clears his throat. “I could help … if you like.”

Thorin cracks an eye open, giving Bilbo a critical look. “As you will.”

Bilbo fumbles with the soaps and ointments for a moment, just managing to get the excess ones back onto the dresser before they topple out of his arms. He selects a gentler sort, then returns to the side of the tub.

Thorin’s eyes are closed again, though he’s very clearly not asleep, if the lines of tension in his limbs are anything to go by.

“Could you wet your hair?”

Thorin makes a quiet sound of amusement, but he complies, sitting up properly in order to cup his hands in the water and thoroughly drench his cropped hair.

Bilbo hesitates for a moment, then begins rubbing his palms against Thorin’s skull, sifting his fingers through the soft hair and doing his best to thoroughly lather every bit. He fancies he can hear Thorin make a low sound of enjoyment at the treatment, though it could be his imagination.

Upon finishing, Bilbo removes his hands, then rises from his crouch. “Alright, you can rinse it off.”

He leaves Thorin to his own devices while he pads to the sink and washes his hands. That done, he takes one of the bottles of ointment from the dresser and returns to the bath.

Thorin is seated in the lukewarm water, which only comes up to his sternum, a faraway expression on his face.

“Thorin?” Bilbo waves his hand, then drops it as the dwarf king turns his attention to him.

“What is that?” Thorin eyes the bottle in Bilbo’s hands.

“Oh, it’s just ointment,” Bilbo explains. “I’m no healer, not by any means, but I wanted to make sure those nasty cuts don’t get infected.”

He gestures to Thorin’s nearest cheek, where the ugly bruises and abrasions are only started to fade.

There’s a moment of silence that stretches between them, but Thorin acquiesces without too great a fuss. He settles back against the wall of the tub, resting his head on the rim.

“Any other hidden talents you’ve got that I should be made aware of?” he inquires, a hint of amusement coloring his tone.

“Unless you count wrangling thirteen Dwarves into a hobbit hole as a talent, I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment,” Bilbo offers with a small smile.

Thorin makes a noncommittal sort of noise, going quiet under Bilbo’s hands as the Halfling begins tending to the cuts and bruises mottling the flesh of his cheeks and jaw.

He hisses as the cloth in Bilbo’s hand grazes a particularly angry-looking cut near his chin, and Bilbo jerks his hands away as if they’d been scalded.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, clasping the bottle of ointment between his hands as he waits to be ordered out.

Thorin grunts, but doesn’t protest. “You’ve almost finished. I’d rather you hurry.”

Bilbo exhales a quiet breath, then dabs a little more ointment on the cuts he couldn’t reach before. Once he finishes, he puts the cloth and ointment away and makes to leave.

“… Wait.”

He pauses at the doorway.

“Would you—“ Thorin clears his throat. “Would you be willing to do one more task for me?”

Bilbo’s smile is a hesitant thing as he turns back. “Of course. What is it?”

Thorin tugs at the wet strands of hair falling onto his brow and over his ears. “I tried to trim it myself, but I’m afraid it turned out rather poorly. Could you…?”

Bilbo hesitates. Thorin's hair is already shorter than even his own hair. Surely it would be a bad idea to make it even shorter? His worry is put to rest, however, when Thorin adds, "I'd rather look like a short _man_ than a ragged, unkempt Dwarf."

Bilbo nods, then crosses to the dresser to find the shears he keeps in the top drawer. 

“I’m no expert,” he feels compelled to warn the king once he returns.

“I believe I’ve heard that once before,” Thorin seems completely unperturbed.

Bilbo snorts, then shakes his head as he begins sifting his fingers through Thorin’s hair again, parsing out the uneven bits. “Actually, that was Óin. Went and misheard me completely without that blasted ear trumpet of his.”

Thorin laughs; a rich rumbling sound that Bilbo can feel through his palms. 

“Alright, hold still,” Bilbo catches his tongue between his teeth as he begins snipping at odd ends of dark hair poking up between his fingers. “Don’t want to undo all my hard work.”

Thorin remains obediently still for an extraordinary amount of time, occasionally tilting his head wherever Bilbo needs it. Unbidden, a thought rears up in Bilbo’s mind.

“I know that beards are rather important to Dwarves,” he ventures as he works. “Is there a reason you’ve always kept yours shorn rather short?”

Thorin goes stiff beneath Bilbo’s hands for a moment, and Bilbo holds his breath, suddenly terrified that he’s overstepped some invisible boundary. But the tension bleeds out of Thorin’s shoulders and he relaxes into Bilbo’s hands once more.

“My forefathers lost their beards to dragonfire when Smaug took Erebor,” the king replies. “After I lost both my grandfather and my father in the Battle of Azanulbizar, I took a blade to my own as a sign of respect for their memories. I’ve kept it shorn ever since.”

Silence reigns for long moments, and Bilbo can hardly find words to reply. His fingers remain still and unmoving in Thorin’s short locks.

“You are a remarkable person, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo mutters quietly, snapping out of his daze and brushing his fingers through the dwarf king’s hair to remove the snipped ends.

“Hrm. Thank you,” comes the gruff reply.

His task finished, Bilbo straightens up, sighing as his spine gives several pops. He replaces the shears and soaps, then makes to leave.

“Oh, before I forget,” he pokes his head back around the doorframe. “The tub can be slippery, so do be careful getting out.”

“Aye,” Thorin nods, then waves him off.

Bilbo makes it halfway to the kitchen before he hears a rather loud _thunk_ , followed by a series of rather colorful Dwarvish curses.

_Oh dear._

“Everything alright?” he calls, knowing that Thorin would likely skin him for laughing at his wounded pride if he were in the room.

“I’m fine,” Thorin snaps, though he sounds a bit flustered. “Don’t worry yourself on my account.”

Bilbo covers his mouth to stifle a rather inappropriately timed snort of laughter, but nonetheless forces himself back to the kitchen to sort out the dishes sitting in the sink.

Well, at least Thorin wasn’t seriously hurt. Though he’ll likely be nursing a bit of his pride for the rest of the day. Bilbo smiles to himself, humming an idle tune as he dries the plates and puts them back in their proper cabinets.

  
****

+++

And so it begins.

The next morning, Bilbo ushers Thorin out of bed and into his dressed down attire (while he nearly forced the dwarf king to abandon his boots altogether, Bilbo relented once Thorin made his displeasure with the idea known). Then, after a quick bite of fresh fruit in the kitchen, herds him outside to begin tending to the gardens. 

It’s slow going at first. Thorin’s hands aren’t used to such work and he grows frustrated quickly, tossing the trowels aside in a fit of pique.

Bilbo manages to stifle a bark of laughter, then places an encouraging hand on Thorin’s shoulder, coaxing him to try again. 

Eventually, Thorin does try again, albeit grudgingly and with no small amount of grumbling under his breath.

Once Thorin learns how to cultivate the more delicate flowers and ferns, Bilbo decides to assign the dwarf king to looking after the fruits and vegetables over the hill of Bag End.

While Thorin gets his hands into the soft earth, toiling obediently under Bilbo’s watchful eye, Bilbo takes the opportunity to lean upon his shovel, observing the dwarf king in an environment not his own.

He looks much younger, for one thing. Without his mane of dappled jet-black hair and a proper beard, he could nearly pass for a Dwarf near Kíli’s age. Still, Bilbo knows from past experience that Thorin is almost exactly 200 years old. The contrast is incredible, and he often finds himself wondering what Thorin Oakenshield would be like if Smaug had never taken the Lonely Mountain, if he had grown up without so very much loss and strife, if he had never earned the name of Oakenshield in the first place.

They would not have met, Bilbo knows that much for certain.

He watches the strong lines of Thorin’s back shift and tense as he works the soil. The memory of the embrace they shared atop the Carrock all those years ago flares in his mind. Bilbo remembers feeling those muscles drawn taut in hesitance and a small amount of fear beneath his palms, remembers the strength in Thorin’s arms as they wrapped around his slighter form. 

Bilbo smiles to himself, straightening and slinging the shovel over his shoulder as Thorin dusts his hands off and approaches.

They fall into step beside each other, a comfortable moment of silence passing between them before Thorin speaks.

"Will your neighbors be jealous of your having help?"

"They might, if you stay on. Perhaps I'll have to start loaning you out,” Bilbo raises his eyebrows playfully.

Thorin chuckles. "I should fetch a decent price."

Bilbo is not about to confirm or deny rumors, should any tumble up his path, which they're bound to do sooner or later given how gossip-hungry the neighboring families tend to be. If his neighbors ask, Thorin will simply be "that Dwarf from Bree."

“You look happy,” Bilbo remarks, holding Thorin’s gaze as the dwarf king watches him in turn.

Thorin smirks to himself. “Do I?”

“Yes. It suits you.”

Thorin gives into a full-bodied laugh this time, then slaps a broad hand down on Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Since you’ve taken the time to educate me with all of this tilling of soil, perhaps you will allow me to return the favor,” he smiles hopefully. 

“Oh? What did you have in mind?”

“I would instruct you in a craft … smithing, jewel-making, whatever you wish.”

Bilbo gapes for a second. “Oh _please_. Can you see a hobbit trying to work a forge? And I shudder to think of what I’d do to all those precious gems mined in Erebor. Thorin, surely you can’t be serious.“

 

“Very well then. I think archery might suit you above those. It would serve you well, in the future,” Thorin replies. “Will you consider it?”

“Yes, alright,” Bilbo nods. “Anything to get out of smithing.”

  
****

+++

Bilbo expects Thorin to ask where the nearest bowyer lives, one who might fashion a bow that will fit him, but the next morning, the dwarf king emerges from his room holding two bows, one long and one short.

The shorter bow, Bilbo sees, is broken.

"I brought one of Kíli’s in the hopes the Elves might fashion him several more," Thorin explains. "I've hewn another from its likeness. The size is right, I think." He hands Bilbo the longer bow.

Bilbo takes the bow, puzzled. "You made this?"

“Of course.”

"During the night? You made me a bow?"

"You wish to learn and it’s a rather necessary tool.”

Bilbo stares at the bow uncertainly. He opens his mouth to speak—

"We would not be here if I did not think you could do this, Bilbo. Come." Thorin presses his broad hand to Bilbo's back and nudges him out the door.

Once out of sight of Hobbiton and close to the curving Brandywine River, Thorin scouts out a smooth patch of grass and slings his quiver from his shoulder.

“What do you need me to do?”

"Unstring this." Thorin gives him the broken bow. "We'll need it."

Bilbo does as ordered, nimble fingers working at the knots and lifting the string from its notches, careful not to let it snap or break.

Meanwhile, Thorin uses one of Bilbo's old leather cutting knives to work notches through the tips of the new bow.

"Knot both ends like this." Thorin shows him how the bowstring is attached to Kíli’s bow. "Make sure the string is taut, not too tight."

Bilbo sits in the grass, the new bow across his lap, and carefully reknots the bowstring at each end, following Thorin's instructions as well as he can.

The first knot stays firmly mounted, but it takes several tries to get the second one properly fitted. Once the new bow is strung, Bilbo hands it to Thorin for his approval.

The dwarf king tests the give of the string.

“It’ll suffice for now,” he gestures to the quiver laying upon the ground. “Fetch an arrow. Then notch it like you saw my nephew doing.”

Bilbo complies, tongue pinched between his teeth as he struggles to recall the form the young dwarf prince used when firing arrows at the wargs and orcs on their tail.

“Keep your body angled away from your target. Keep your feet evenly spread,” the dwarf king pokes and prods at Bilbo until his form is halfway satisfactory. “When you lift your bow, don’t let your arm rise. Keep it low, a single line from the arrowhead to your opposite elbow.”

Bilbo glances curiously at his tutor. “I never thought you held much stock in this particular sport. You never seemed to praise Kíli’s efforts.”

“Who do you think taught him?” Thorin raises a dark brow, tapping the Halfling’s elbow back down. “It may be favored by the Elves, but if my nephew wished to learn, then I would teach him.”

“How did you learn, then? From your father?”

Thorin’s expression darkens for a moment, but he shakes it away, taking a step back and giving Bilbo’s form a critical once-over. “Yes. I learned it from my father.”

Sensing that a change of subject would be tactful, Bilbo clears his throat. “Have you got any arrows that’ll fit this?”

“Several,” Thorin smiles faintly, then holds one out, fletching first. 

Bilbo takes it, notching the fletching properly against the string in a mimicry of the demonstration Thorin offers, then glances up again.

“Aim across the river,” Thorin nods to the opposite bank. “We can collect them when you’re finished.”

It takes a moment to steel his nerves, but Bilbo curls his fingers over the bowstring, sighting down the length of the arrow. He aims for a small patch of discolored grass, then looses the arrow. 

It flies only a hand wide and Bilbo feels oddly accomplished. He grins, turning to Thorin, who is grinning back at him. “Not all bad, right?”

Thorin chuckles, then hands him another arrow. “It seems Hobbits exist to surprise me.”

Bilbo takes the arrow, then repeats the steps, finding that relaxing his shoulders helps to improve the ease with which he looses the arrows.

Soon enough, the sun has passed high overhead and yearns towards the horizon, casting lengthening shadows across the fields.

They abandon practice in favor of sprawling out in the tall grasses, sharing long drags on Bilbo’s pipe. 

Bilbo muses silently to himself, blowing smoke rings into the air as he envisions the day this idyllic respite will evaporate when Thorin’s kin eventually come to collect him.

He knows they will. 

A small, selfish part of him hopes they never come. The logical part of his mind knows that they will whether he wants them to or not. They must. Once news of Thorin’s disappearance reaches the Lonely Mountain, a search will be launched to find him.

He thinks it’s quite possible that he’s fallen in love with Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain. He blames his foolishly soft heart for it, though he can’t deny the truth in the notion.

While the dwarf king is distracted with the clouds overhead, Bilbo greedily steals a sideways glance, watching the steady rise and fall of Thorin’s chest. It’s unbelievably soothing, and he finds he wants nothing more than to rest his cheek there, listening to the constant thunder of the heartbeat within.

Thorin’s rumbling voice distracts him from his observations. “I’ve never taken the proper time to sky-gaze.”

“Surely you must have done countless times on the way to Erebor?” Bilbo’s eyebrows rise slightly, though he finds his gaze drawn back to them as well.

“That wasn't the same.”

Bilbo remembers Balin telling him of Dwarven culture, following a polite inquiry after the women of their people. Dwarves love once, and if that love is ended or goes unreturned, they never love again.

At the time, he thought it frightening, the prospect of such a lonely life. But now, it isn’t so very much. After all, who is he to speak of love? He knows very little of it, save for the quick starbursts of enthusiasm and passion he once shared with the other young hobbits his age in decades past.

Now, firmly in the middle years of his life, Bilbo is well aware of his status as Hobbiton’s eccentric bachelor. He has not imagined settling down, not with anyone in the Shire. But when he turns his gaze upon Thorin, he decides that he would do nearly anything to have even a fraction of what he feels for the dwarf king returned.

Once the silence becomes vaguely stilted, Bilbo gives a satisfied nod, then tamps the last remnants left in the pipe out with his thumb, watching as the tiny embers crumble and fade. He turns to ask Thorin how much longer he'll be cooking for two—

And finds his lips pressed against an impossibly warm mouth.

_Oh, this is a bad idea. A very bad idea indeed._

Shoving that thought out of mind, Bilbo discards his pipe in the grass and reaches to tangle his fingers in the short hair at Thorin’s nape, pressing into the kiss with as much fervor as he receives.

Thorin’s hands find their way to the crown of his head, strong fingers threading carefully into his tawny curls.

Bilbo ignores the voice of reason telling him to cease this nonsense at once, instead clutching Thorin as close as the dwarf king allows, gasping at the sudden press of teeth on his lower lip. 

At last, forced to breathe, they part, but remain close enough to share warm, wet breaths.

“I’m going to get my heart broken, aren’t I?” Bilbo hears the emotion in his own voice and fights the urge to laugh at his inevitable folly.

Thorin regards him silently, his eyes keen and bright in the fading light. He leans forward, pressing an affectionate kiss to the bridge of Bilbo’s nose.

“I would not wish it. You have saved me, Bilbo Baggins. I value you more than I can express in mere words.”

"With a kiss, instead?"

"So it seems."

Bilbo tightens his fingers in Thorin’s dark locks, seeking out the warmth of his mouth for another lingering kiss that leaves them both breathless. “You’re a king," says Bilbo. "Kings aren't supposed to say that."

Thorin is silent for a moment. Then he draws Bilbo closer, and Bilbo goes pliant, tucking his head beneath the dwarf king’s chin. "I should have said it long ago.”

Bilbo listens to the heartbeat under his ear, strong and steady. If this is all he’ll ever have, he’ll take it. Mindlessly and hopelessly, perhaps, but he’ll take it.

“We should start for home,” he says. The sky overhead is now a dusky purple.

When Thorin answers, low and deep and knowing, Bilbo can feel it in his very bones. “As you wish.”

  
****

+++

There is a brief stretch of four days during which they try to distract themselves with gardening, tending to Bag End, and occasionally venturing out to practice Bilbo's aim with his new bow on the bank of the Brandywine. Thorin usually ends up reclining in the grass, watching Bilbo challenge himself with targets placed on the opposite side of the river.

Bilbo hasn’t any idea how to bring up the events from that day by the river’s edge, but he finds himself unable to keep from touching Thorin’s hand or forearm when they are sharing the dishes between them or engaged in some other menial chore.

He’s surprised to find that Thorin, despite his bearing and station, is actually rather fond of helping put the laundry out to dry, or sitting in the den while Bilbo recites verses of poetry from one of his family’s tomes.

The fourth night, Bilbo finds himself wedged between the hard edge of the sink and Thorin’s bulk, the dwarf king’s hands on his waist and in his curls. He’s not quite sure how they managed to get here.

He clutches Thorin’s hair in his own fists, learning the warmth of his mouth with his tongue.

It feels as though there is a clock ticking, counting down their time together. It hurts all the more when they draw apart, panting together against each other's cheeks.

“We can’t,” Bilbo whispers, eyes squeezed shut.

"Bilbo."

"Please—"

"I know what you are thinking. Believe me when I tell you I do not wish to go back."

Bilbo reaches up, framing the dwarf king’s face in his small hands. “You have a kingdom."

Thorin pulls away and growls something harsh and guttural in a tongue Bilbo distantly recognizes as Khuzdul, though he cannot understand it.

"I cannot take that from you," says Bilbo. "I will not.”

Those piercing blue eyes soften, and Thorin draws forward, rests his cheek in the curve of Bilbo’s hand, all the fight gone out of him. “I want nothing more than to make these years up to you, to make up for what I've done. To show you what you've meant to me."

Bilbo shakes his head and feels his eyes fill with tears. He presses up onto his toes and touches his brow to the king's. “I know that already."

Thorin takes Bilbo's hand in his own and presses a kiss to the center of his palm.

“I love you,” Bilbo says.

Thorin inclines his head as if to speak. But he says nothing. He swallows audibly, seemingly unable to form words. 

Before Bilbo can repeat himself, the king turns and leaves.

Bilbo stares after him, an ache he hadn’t even realized existed settling firmly in his chest.

Later, he retreats to his room and curls beneath the coverlets. He doesn't bother to knock on his guest's door. Instead, he burrows deep and weeps long into the night, hiding his face in the forgiving softness of his pillow.

  
****

+++

Bilbo wakes in the morning to someone pounding on the front door.

He fumbles into his tartan robe and pads yawning down the hall to the entryway.

The pounding grows louder. "I'm coming! I'm coming." Who could it be? Goodness, not one of the Sackville-Bagginses at this hour… 

He wrenches the door open, only to be greeted by two very familiar Dwarves.

“Bilbo!” says Kíli, grinning brightly. “Thank goodness you’re here. Dwalin said you and Uncle would be.”

“Dwalin said…” Bilbo trails off, taking in the brothers for the first time in over half a decade.

He closes the door before either of them can get a word in edgewise, then races down the opposite end of the hall, pounding on Thorin’s door before bursting into the room without waiting for an answer.

“Thorin, your nephews are here.” 

He tugs the coverlets off the dwarf king’s barely-conscious form, finds his discarded tunic and tosses it at him before searching for his boots. “You need to get up _now_.”

Thorin lifts his head from the pillow, eyes narrowed in sleepy confusion.

“Here? At the door?”

"Yes! Yes, at the door. Where dwarves are usually at when they want to come into my house. Which hasn't happened in five years, but why should I be surprised--"

Thorin has gone completely still, the color drained from his face. His eyes are wide with terror.

"Thorin—"

Bilbo takes his face in his hands, forcing their eyes to meet.

Time seems to stand still. A moment of incredible loss seems to pass between them before Thorin speaks in a broken voice.

"Bilbo, I—"

"Thorin, listen to me. They're your family. You should go to them."

It takes several moments until Thorin’s hands cease shaking, but Bilbo leaves with a promise that he will follow. 

He returns to the entry and, feeling slightly ashamed, opens the door and finds the brothers just as he left them, still smiling. "I'm sorry. Please come in."

“’salright,” Fíli lifts a shoulder, his blond braids swaying back and forth as he moves. “There’s reasons for everything. Did he oversleep?”

Bilbo laughs tightly, then shakes his head. “No, no. He’ll be decent in just a moment.”

Kíli frowns, then makes to step forward before his brother lays a hand on his midriff. “He’s alright, though? Unhurt?”

“He’s quite alright, yes,” Bilbo glances back into the entryway as Thorin rounds the corner of the hall, resplendent in the regalia he first arrived in.

“Uncle!” Kíli pushes forward, completely oblivious to Bilbo’s scramble to move out of the way as he flings his arms around his uncle’s shoulders.

Thorin appears too surprised to move at first. Eventually, he raises his arms to return his youngest nephew’s embrace and presses a familial kiss into the dark mess of Kíli’s hair. 

Kíli’s smile is blindingly bright. “We thought you dead for certain, but Dwalin went out on the hunt when we heard of the raiders and tracked you here.”

Thorin touches his brow to Kíli’s. “I am sorry to have frightened you,” the dwarf king rumbles softly, giving his nephew one last embrace before raising his eyes to Fíli. “Both of you.”

Fíli’s smile is just as bright as he moves to embrace his uncle as well. Bilbo looks away, not wanting to intrude on their moment, though he can't help but smile. Five years ago, he would have called this family his own.

When he glances back up, he finds the king is looking directly at him, his expression at once astonished and relieved. Fíli and Kíli don't seem to care one way or the other about the state of their uncle's appearance.

"Told you," says Bilbo softly.

Thorin smiles, then holds his nephews back at arm's length. "Are you here to escort me, then?"

Kíli and Fíli nod as one, then grin at each other before Fíli opens his mouth. “Dwalin’s got the ponies in Bree, where he tracked down the reports of a ‘mystery Dwarf’. He sent us up here to fetch you.”

Thorin nods in understanding, then offers Bilbo an unreadable look. “Allow me to fetch my pack. One moment.”

With that, he disappears back to his room, leaving the three of them alone in the entryway.

Bilbo notices Fíli eyeing him curiously. “Have I done something wrong?”

“I’ve just never seen Uncle act that way towards someone before. At least, someone who isn’t family or one of his shieldmates.”

Caught off guard, Bilbo flushes slightly. “We have resolved our differences,” he offers as explanation. “I suppose that would account for the change from the last time you saw us together.”

Before Fíli can press further, Thorin reappears, his pack and quiver strapped across his back, traveling cloak keeping his shorn hair well hidden. He approaches Bilbo, then presses the smaller bow into the Halfling’s hands, along with a small pendant in the shape of Thorin’s crest on a leather strap.

“I can’t keep this,” Bilbo tries to press the gifts back.

“You can, and you will,” he says firmly. “I will never force you to leave your home, but you can keep a small part of mine with you.”

Tears burn at the corners of Bilbo's eyes. His restraint fails him, and he grabs Thorin's cloak and draws him into a searing kiss.

Behind them, Bilbo can hear identical gasps of delighted surprise from the brothers. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he can see their smiles in his mind’s eye.

Thorin kisses him as though this is to be the last time they ever see each other. The thought coils frigid dread in Bilbo’s gut and he clutches the fabric of Thorin’s hood in his fingers, pressing into the kiss for all it’s worth.

When they part, Bilbo thinks he can see tears glistening on Thorin's cheeks, but he makes no comment on it. Instead, he stands at the door as the royal line of Durin offers their thanks and respective well wishes.

Thorin kisses him again on the stoop, and Bilbo wishes for it to last forever. Then, Thorin is pulling away, warm lips brushing the shell of Bilbo’s ear.

“ _I love you._ ”

Bilbo blinks once, then stares as the dwarf king retreats, moving to stand behind his nephews, who each drop a kiss on a flustered Bilbo’s cheeks, grinning mischievously all the while.

Even Thorin laughs at that, and Bilbo can’t find it in him to be ruffled. He smiles wanly, lifting the hand clutching Thorin’s crest in farewell until the Dwarves fade from view down the lane.

Bilbo closes the door when they are gone.

_I love you._

Bilbo stares at his books, at his table and chairs, at the pictures on his walls. Suddenly, it all seems so small.

_I love you._

A short eternity seems to pass in which he imagines himself languishing in his tepid existence for the rest of his life—in which he imagines Thorin in Erebor, hands in the dirt at the foot of the mountain, tending his new garden.

_I love you._

"I can't stay here."

It takes approximately half an hour to pack all his necessities into his travel pack, then another twenty minutes to dress himself properly for a journey across half of Middle Earth. 

"Too late, too late. I'm already too late."

Still, that doesn’t stop him from bursting out his front door at a full gallop, tearing down the lane as fast as he can manage. 

“Here, now,” calls the Gaffer from across the way. “Mister Bilbo, what’s got you in such a hurry?”

“I’m off to Erebor!” Bilbo cries as he passes at a near sprint, tossing the keys to Bag End in the Gaffer’s direction. “Look after the place, please?”

He doesn’t catch the Gaffer’s expression, but he imagines it to be rather long-suffering.

_Can't stop. Keep going._

Bilbo runs all the way over the Brandywine Bridge, urged on by the distant sounds of rumbling thunder as a storm brews on the horizon. He passes through Bree, where he finds out that the quartet of dwarves aren't far ahead. Just a few miles more…

The storm arrives from the north, blotting out the sun and trailing torrential downpours through the forest. Still, Bilbo perseveres, clutching Thorin’s crest in one hand as he runs.

Finally, after what feels like hours, he spies horses through the trees a ways ahead. Relief courses through his veins.

“Wait!” Bilbo cries. “Wait!”

Thunder crashes, drowning out his cries.

Bilbo doesn't slow down, but the longer he runs, the further the gap between them seems to grow.

_Too late._

He can't run forever. Weariness begins to drag him down, and concentration falters enough that he doesn't see the root protruding from the edge of the road until it's too late. He trips and tumbles into the brush. When he looks up, the ponies are gone. The rain is pouring harder now.

"Wait," Bilbo says weakly. Out of breath.

Soaked to the skin, he wraps his arms around himself and shivers against the cold. "Wait."

There’s no response to his cries, and Bilbo wasn’t expecting one. Tears wash down his cheeks with the rain, trailing down his throat.

Suddenly, there are two strong hands on his arms, lifting him to his feet.

Bilbo stares open-mouthed as the unmistakable shape of Thorin Oakenshield materializes before him, having apparently circled around. Bilbo wants to throw his arms around the king's neck, but instead, he pulls away, beating his fists ineffectively against that barrel chest.

“Do not tell me how I feel, do not ignore me, and do not leave me behind, Thorin Oakenshield,” he shouts through the pouring rain. “I love you, and that's all there is to it, and I mean to never leave you.”

Thorin tries to catch Bilbo's hands in his own. "Bilbo—"

"Yes. Tell me I'm mad."

"I love you." Thorin finally catches his hands. Bilbo goes still.

"You do?"

"You ran all this way. Are you certain you want this?"

“Yes!” Bilbo shouts, exasperated and unbearably fond in equal measure. “Yes, you great idiot!”

Bilbo scarcely has time to draw a breath before the dwarf king is kissing the very air from his lungs.

"You found yours, did you?" Dwalin's gruff voice through the quieting rain reminds Bilbo that they are not alone. He flushes to the tips of his ears at the sight of the other three dwarves in the road, not ten feet away. Thorin's laugh is low and gentle as strong arms wrap protectively around him.

"I have," the king replies.

Bilbo touches their brows together, accepting a chaste kiss before Thorin releases him. Then, he glances up at Dwalin, who he can sense is still observing them.

The bald dwarf snorts derisively, then shakes his head. “I’m not kissing you, Hobbit.”

Fíli and Kíli laugh riotously, and Bilbo finds himself grinning along with them. Thorin steps away from Bilbo and draws up his pony. He hoists himself onto his saddle effortlessly, then holds down a hand.

“I’d give you a pony, but I’m afraid we’ve run one short,” Thorin squeezes Bilbo's hand when he takes it. “We’ve a long journey ahead of us that your feet will not appreciate.”

While he could argue that particular point, Bilbo finds he cannot summon the energy to care. Instead, he tightens his hold on Thorin’s hand, then leaps up with the added strength of Thorin’s pull, landing astride the animal just behind Thorin’s saddle.

Without prompting, he wraps his arms around Thorin’s middle, resting his chin on the dwarf king’s shoulder. “Lead on, good sir. I’m certain your nephews will raise the alarm if I manage to tumble off.”

“Aye, we will!” Fíli and Kíli chime in.

The rain falls softly between them, and Bilbo thinks he's never hears quite such a beautiful sound.

“Then it seems our journey is set to begin,” Thorin declares, digging both heels into his pony’s sides to spur the animal into a brisk trot, leading the company onward into the heart of the forest.

As they ride, Bilbo feels a familiar rumbling beneath his palms as Thorin breaks into song, prompting his nephews to rise to the occasion.

_Far over the misty mountains cold_  
 _To dungeons deep and caverns old_  
 _We must away ere break of day_  
 _To seek the pale enchanted gold_

Dwalin’s gravel tones emerge from the rear of the company, completing the harmony. Bilbo fancies he’ll suggest a few songs of his own as they ride, but for now, is perfectly content to listen.

And for the first time in a very long while, Bilbo Baggins finds he is at peace.


End file.
